Rock On, Moms

I'm a rock star. See? I've got pink hair. So I must be a rock star.

I've wanted a pink streak in my hair for years...way before Rachel McAdams and Avril Lavigne. In fact, I think the first time I saw pink hair and thought: "How cool would THAT be?!?" was back in the days when Gwen Stefani was just a broken-hearted rocker chic in a little band called No Doubt. But I tossed the idea aside pretty quickly each time. After all, I'm not a celebrity (at least not in the real world). And over the last few years, I became (gasp!) a MOM. Moms wear sweaters. Moms have neat, manageable bob hair cuts. Moms do NOT have pink hair.

And then I thought: And why the hell not? Since when have I ever participated in the "Supposed To's" of life?

Maybe it's the fact that Aidan Kai is sleeping through the night and behaving more like a funny little person than an infant, but I'm starting to feel like my Old Self again. The person I was before I became pregnant with Ben and was again before I got pregnant with Aidan. I don't know...but there's something about leasing your body out for 9 months to another human being that totally seems to suck the sense of self right out of you.

And when I called my hair dresser up, she totally got it. I admit, I was a bit apprehensive when I arrived at the salon. After all, as much as I may be, as she said, "the artsy, creative type," I'm also the "type A, slightly neurotic type." Before the color had even been wrapped in foil, I had already had the first on-looker reaction: an audible gasp followed by "Is it really going to be pink?" A few minutes later as I was getting shampooed: "What is this?" And then, my favorite reaction thus far...my mother-in-law who was pulling out of the driveway as I pulled in: "Ay! What happened?!? Is that permanent?!?" The funny thing is...the more people I startled and confused, the more I loved the pink streak. Yeah, I know, I need therapy. But I've always gotten a little kick out of shocking people just a tad. I've never been into blending in with the rest of the world.

A few ladies at the salon asked me before I left: "What will your husband think?" My husband...the true rock star of our household...is so comfortable in his own skin that he can not even begin to relate to someone NOT doing something for fear of standing out or being judged. He loves it and, to quote him, thinks I'm "a bad ass."

I'm not so sure I'm a bad ass, but I know I'm a rock star...at least in my own head. And really, isn't that the only one that counts?